Who I Am?
by overcaffeinated-irony
Summary: Canada receives a call that shatters his entire world. With one call from the hospital, his universe comes crashing down around him. His one and only brother, America, has been emitted into a doctors care... but, why? What has happened to his lovable, hamburger obsessed sibling? I'm terrible at summaries, story is MUCH better than description. So, come give it a try.
1. The Beginning

"Who I Am?"

Chapter 1: Discovery

I hadn't expected the call to be this heart shattering. It broke my world- my life, for the time being, had stopped, as if an unknown presence had cruelly pressed pause. Things like this don't happen. Not to me. Not to my brother. It wasn't right. I still remember those days, filled with worry and such a heavy anticipation I couldn't sleep at night.

My stomach was always churning.

I remember the first day as if it had just happened. Like I had just finished watching this tragic movie. The morning I received that grueling call continues to fester deep in my mind.

It was a normal Saturday morning; I woke up with the suns harsh rays blazing against my eyelids. I had to pry my eyes open slowly, feeling the effects of a long Friday wearing on my aching appendages.

I felt a smile play across my face, and I grinned into it. No meeting today, I didn't have to go to Gakuen Academy- I could simply stay home, eat pancakes, and watch hockey. It was going to be one of those perfect days, where nothing could get in the way. I wouldn't have to hear the word, "Who?" spoken at all. What a voluptuous thought, but I was to make it happen.

A groan worked its way up and out of the back of my throat, and a yawn racked my body. I stretched my long, slender arms up over my head. The sleeve of my red shirt slipped down, but I paid it no heed. My pajamas consisted of a red t-shirt with a white maple leaf on the front, and black shorts. I also wore red socks that went all the way up to my knees.

Luckily it was only me and Kumajiku-er, Kumijuko… whatever his name is, so no one could criticize my certain attire. But, I suppose that's beside the point.

I slung my legs over the side of my bed, blinking sleep from my violet eyes. It felt as if I was hauling lead. I shakily stood, my legs trembling beneath me. "Gosh," I murmured to no one in particular, "I shouldn't have stayed at Prussia's house for so long last night. It really took its toll." My gaze flicked to the wooden nightstand, where thin, grey wired glasses neatly rested. Plucking them from their spot, I put them on their rightful place. Sitting comfortably on top of my nose.

Shuffling, I made my way into the living room, where scruffy hockey sticks sat up against a wall and, beside the TV, sat an answering machine with a phone resting atop it. The number one blinked in flashing red. I quirked a dirty blonde brow.

"A new message?" I queried. "How odd."

Prussia is the only one that really ever calls me, that or America asking for money or requesting to borrow something.  
>France may rarely call, but his Friday nights are normally so busy I doubt he'd have the time.<p>

Slinking over to the couch, I plopped down and pressed the play button on the apparatus.  
>"One new message." The robotic voice droned in a melancholy tone. I listened intently, intrigued. The caller had a foreign voice that of which I did not recognize.<p>

"Hello," The strange man began, and already my stomach began to twist into tight knots. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my belly. I kept listening.

"Matthew Williams, I am Dr. Vasquez. I'm calling to inform you that we're currently holding your brother, Alfred Foster Jones, in Room 189."

My heart immediately dropped to my stomach. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until I finally had to let it out, but it came out shaky and unstable. What had happened? Is he alright? When did this Doctor call? Unanswered questions tumbled through my mind, discombobulating my weary subconscious. My blood ran positively cold. I worriedly scratched the back of my neck, feeling the hairs stand up on end. All drowsiness I had earlier was completely obliterated by my silent hysteria.

Feeling my chest constrict, I waited as he continued, "I sincerely apologize for the severe inconvenience."  
><em>Inconvenience? <em>I wanted to scream. _My brother is in the hospital! This is more than a stupid inconvenience- he could be dead for all I know!_

My hands began to shake. I put them between my knees.

"I, also, wish to apologize for not being able to reach you. I shall discuss your brother's state with you once you arrive. Do try to be here as soon as possible. All that I can state at the moment is that he is converting in and out of consciousness. I haven't the desire to worry you further."

After that, he gave me the hospital name and address, and the number in case I wanted to call beforehand.

I couldn't believe what I had just heard. How could he not tell me Alfred's condition? I had a right to know. I leaned back against the sofa cushions, trying to gather my bearings. My heart hammered in my chest so fast I thought it would burst. All that I could vaguely hear with the thud in my ribcage and a slight buzzing in my ears.

Breakfast was forgotten. There was no way I could eat now- I would surely throw it all back up in a millisecond. My mind was a haunted fog. It was as if someone else had just heard that ground breaking message, not me. It was someone else's only brother in the hospital for God-only-knows what. Not my own. Alfred was fine, probably still asleep in his own bed, in his own room. Not some white room with fancy drapes and clean, immaculate sheets.

This was all merely a dream. Or, at least, that's what I kept telling myself. I had made a mantra of sorts. _It's all a bad dream. This isn't real. He's fine. It's all a bad dream. This isn't real. He's fine._

But no matter how many times I told myself this, I knew better. This _isn't_ a dream. This _is_ real. He_ isn't_ fine. I had an obligation now, to go and see how he is.  
>Being a nation, I've never really had any religion. But if there was a God, I was praying to him that Alfred wasn't hurt. There wasn't time to call anyone. Hours went by, and I just sat with my head flooded with these horrible thoughts of what shape Alfred might be in, each idea worst than the last. Or, at least, it felt like hours. It could have simply been minutes, seconds even.<p>

As if I had been shocked by the cushion beneath me I sprang up and ran into my bedroom, slamming the door open. I could barely hear the ear-splitting _SMACK_ that it made when it harshly connected to the wall behind me. It did not matter.  
>The only thing on my mind was my only brother. <p>

My hero.

Throwing open the closet door I grabbed the first pair of blue jeans I saw and yanked them on, not bothering to remove my wrinkled shorts. Time was going by too quickly. I had to get there. I should have been there last night, when the doctor initially called. Alfred needed me last night, not the day after.

I am such an idiot!

Last night, when my brother was in a wreck, had gotten beaten, or whatever had emitted him into the hospital occurred, I was at Prussia's house playing mindless, time wasting games, thinking of only myself. How selfish! How could I? What have I done?

I was already in the living room, frantically tying shoes that I knew wouldn't stay tied for more than five minutes.  
>Then, I was out the door.<p>

_Please._

I turned the keys in the ignition. I was on my way to a hospital that I had never been in before.

_Please._

The roads stretched out endlessly in front of me. Where was it? It had to be close by now. I'd been driving for ever, seemingly.

_Please be okay._

A single tear dripped from my cheek. I sniffled once and wiped the salty invader off with the back of my hand. I won't cry.  
>Not yet.<p>

_Please, Alfred._

I sped past cars. The world all around me was a blur. All that I could see was right in front of me.  
>Hospital, where are you?<p>

_Please. Please. Please._

A white building showed itself in the distance. I was so close, yet so far.

_Please, don't be in pain._

Of course, I subconsciously thought, somewhat bitterly. The entire place was white, despite the yellow light shining through windows, or the sky blue of curtains blocking curious eyes.  
>Anyone who would gaze upon it would see white.<br>The fictional viewing of Heaven.  
>Nothing but white.<p>

_Please, no. No, no, no. _

Finally, I parked my car. Though I did not open my door. I couldn't see- unshed tears blurred my vision. I didn't want to walk in that horrid place that reeks of bleach and disinfectant with red rimmed eyes and a tear stained face. I had to walk in there appearing strong. Confident.

If I didn't, then they would sugar coat Alfred's condition. They would butter it up as kindly as possible. I needed them to tell me the entire honesty, the whole truth. I couldn't stand for those judgmental doctors to sweeten it up "for my sake".

With a heavy heart and raised shoulders, I stepped out of the car and walked into the unknown.

Chapter 2: Unfair Reality


	2. Unfair Reality

Who I Am

Chapter 2: Unfair Reality

{A.N. I am so very sorry for the delay! Oh, I've felt so guilty for not updating! But SAT's happened, and band (Marching, Jazz, Pep- and now I have this great thing I've been chosen for, from 200 students in my state! So excited!) and Winter Guard, and trying to also maintain a social life…needless to say, it's been hectic. But I'll try to do more, and sooner. I do solemnly swear. So, without further ado, please read chapter 2, my amazing readers. Also, if you want, I'll answer responses in the ending of a chapter. Only if you want, though.}

As soon as the automatic sliding doors parted for my entrance, I was suffocated with the strong aroma of antiseptics and various disinfectants. It was as if I'd stumbled into a bottle of bleach. My eyes began to sting, and I told myself it was due to the overwhelming scent choking me, and not because of the reason I'm here in the first place.

My surroundings were foreign, for I'd only had to be in the hospital once, and that was due to my falling off my bike and then promptly into a ditch. I had a "clavicle fracture", which, in medical talk, is a broken collarbone. I sat there crying as loud as I could until France came out.

He rushed me right to the hospital-but I was merely a child at that time. I don't recall as to what it looked like. Stumbling forward, I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants, feeling my heart rate quicken. I longed-so greatly-to run out of this horrid place and hide. Pretend this doesn't exist. Perhaps I could go back to sleep and wake to that message on the answering machine gone. Maybe-

_No!_ I mentally chided myself as I bit hard into my bottom lip. _You can't think like that. Move forward. Move forward._ I made a mantra of sorts and replayed it in my cranium numerous times, repetitively, like it was a broken record of two motivational words.

The dull colors of blues and greens hustled and bustled around me the various colors of scrubs loosely fitting around the doctors; their ID's clanging against their necks. How could they possibly maneuver about as if nothing is wrong, as if my world was not currently crumbling around me in a chaotic whirlwind of disarray, as if there wasn't patients dying every minute, naïve and hopeful families becoming lifeless and slapped in the face by the cruelty of fate.

Would I become one of thousands, maybe millions, of family members impatiently awaiting diagnosis, crazily biting thumbnails until they decrease to nothing but bloody stubs or being so unfairly anxiety ridden that keeping still for one millisecond is a propaganda that is completely absurd to the mind and body? There was only one way to find out, and the rock that consisted to grow in my chest and the feeling that my legs have been reduced to that of lead was the only factors keeping me at bay.

_I don't want to know._

_I don't want to know. _

_I most certainly do not want to know._

_I have to know. _

I tried blinking back the impending water that threatened to trickle down my cheeks. I had already released a few straggling tears moments before, and I told myself continuously that I shan't let out one more before Alfred and I were alone in sterile solitude. That is, of course, if I'm able to see him. What if his body is too mangled to be seen? What if I am too late? What if he is in surgery as my internal monologue continues to cause dizziness to my mind?

I ran a shaky hand through my hair, trembling fingers snagging on clumps of ratted, tangled tresses that was due to a lack of being brushed. I was in too much of a hustle to even think of grooming myself; though I don't regret it, having it been a necessity to rush here as soon as possible, I still tried to ignore the distant glances of passersby as they quirked a brow at my untidiness.

Trying in vain to block out the sound of shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor and faint murmurs of hushed tones, explaining situations to anxious friends and families, I swept my gaze to a desk with a calm women sitting behind, looking lazily at a stack of papers; that of which she seemed fairly uninterested in. Dragging my feet felt as if I had a pound of gold bars in each pocket weighing me down, but nevertheless I forced my way over to her, tapping hesitantly on the desk. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until it came out in a flourished shudder.

My heart felt like invisible hands were wrapped around it, squeezing until soon I would be nothing left. I should be the one laying on a white sheet whilst doctors pocked and prodded me with odd, metallic instruments that always made my stomach lurch, not Alfred.  
>Was there anything that I could have done to have prevented this turn of events?<p>

The women flicked her eyes up to me, that of which was a sharp green color. If they were even the slightest bit blue, I believe the possibility of my losing consciousness was going to be all too soon. "Yes, how may I help you?" She asked, coaxing her words with a thick layer of fake sweetness that reminded me of eating cupcakes with two much icing-the sort of experience that leaves you with a bitter taste lingering on your tongue that no amount of liquid can truly dispose of.

I cleared my throat, praying that my voice would not betray me by cracking. "Hello. Uhm, hi." My name is Matthew Williams. I, uh, got a call this morning…" I had to pull the words from my mouth one by one, each feeling like poison that I am forced to swallow. I coughed into my clenched fist, and when I reopened it I glanced down to discover small crescent moons shapes engraved into my whitened palms from where my nails had recently been. Breathing through my nose, I continued my nonsensical explanation. The women sat behind the desk nonetheless, resting her chin on the back of her hand.

"My brother, Alfred Foster Jones. He was emitted last night, right? I just received the voicemail when I woke up, so…" I met her expectant gaze for a moment, and then averted my eyes. How much did I have to say for her to pull up a file or some paperwork and confirm my story and inform me of what room he is located in, etcetera? Clearing my throat for the second time, I managed to squeak, "Uh, if you could tell me where I could find him or how he's doing, that would be great."

I tried to swallow the knot festering in my throat, but it only began to rise behind my teeth. Stifling a gag, I awaited her reply. The women-whose name is presumable Isabelle, from my inference by looking at her nameplate- plucked up a pair a reading glasses and plopped them on the edge of her nose. She rummaged through papers; fingers skimming across the tops, until she pulled open a file and flipped it open, eyes roaming the contents. After a few seconds she looked up and smiled sweetly, making me want to wince.

_Is she paid to put on this sort of façade? _I silently queried. I pursed my lips as she happily chirped, "Why, yes, Matthew. Your brother is in room 189, and his doctor is Dr. Vasquez-a very good man, you won't be displeased by his work." Her smile drooped slightly, and she gave a slight tilt of her head. "But I thought he had already informed you of this through the voicemail." My cheeks grew inflamed, and I rung my hands together.

_Moron._

"Yes. Right. Sorry, I suppose it slipped my mind."

"Oh, don't worry, Hun." She cooed, flashing me a toothy grin. "Here, before you go in you'll need a visitors pass-no big deal, we just need to take precautions, ya know?" I nodded, telling her I comprehended. Who knew who would try to sneak in here? People were growing more and more deranged as the generations continued on. (When you're a nation, you live to see a lot of changes.)

She then handed me a pass to wear around my neck that had the word "VISITOR" in bold capitals printed down the front. I bowed my thanks, and then strode down the hall, eyes scanning every door for the room number 189. I even broke out into a run, but when one of the nurses saw she politely informed me there was no running in the hospital, so when I grew to a far enough distance away from her I decided to jog.

It turned out I needed to hop on an elevator, which only meant more time I would have to wait. My stomach continued to do flips inside of me, and I never recalled teaching my insides to be a gymnast. I, luckily, managed to ride the elevator alone, and the instant those doors opened I bolted out, racing to the door. 185, 186, 187, 188…

"Ah! You must be Mr. Williams, yes?" I stopped in my tracks, almost ramming into the man's chest whom stood in front of me, blocking the door behind him. His broad shoulders hid the room number, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was room number 189.

Trying to calm my breathing, I stammered, "Y-Yes," at this point, I didn't care about the stuttering, or how disheveled and maddened I must appear; I just needed to see Alfred. "That's me. I-I'm Matthew, Alfred's brother-is he in there?" I craned my neck to see over who I assumed was Dr. Vasquez, but it was a fruitless effort. Resigning to slumping my shoulders and trying to keep an easy-going composer, I looked at the doctor head on, despite the fact he was taller than I.

"Yes, yes, your brother is in there. Now-"

"C-Can I see him? Is he alright? Oh, god, please tell me that he is okay. No, no, don't butter anything up; tell me the truth. The c-cold hard truth. Oh, my god, is he going to live? Doctor, please, I-"

I clamped my mouth shut, mentally slapping myself across the face. Hysterical, that is what I have become. Absolutely hysterical, my heart hammering, mind swimming, palms sweating. Dr. Vasquez refrained himself from, fortunately, quirking his brow or showing a sign that my frenzied stream of words had made him lenient to give me information.

_He probably deals with frantic brothers all the time,_ I reasoned, subconsciously clenching my fists once more. _Today won't be any different for him. _

"I-I'm sorry… it's just… tell me all that you can, please."  
><em>I'll shut up now, Doctor.<em>

He cleared his throat, and I suddenly felt so ashamed. I had practiced this speech a million times in my mind, over, and over, and over again until syllables didn't quite sound like syllables anymore and my words did not sound like anything other than slurred sounds. Out the door, in the car, walking into the building. I wouldn't stop reciting what I would say when coming face to face (well, more accurately put, face to chin) with Alfred's doctor.

And, now that I stood in his presence, I could not think of any of it to say. My mind was drawing a blank; all that I saw was Al's lifeless body being covered up with a white sheet that matched the shade of his skin. Shuddering, I listened to Dr. Vasquez, biting my tongue to keep it at bay.

"Your brother has suffered some major head injuries, unfortunately." Upon seeing my horrified expression, he hurriedly added, "But nothing substantial to his health. No brain damage or internal bleeding or anything of that sort. Do not be alarmed in that department."

'_In that department'? What department should I be alarmed in, then? _

"It seems that he was hit by a car-now, let me inform you that he is one of the luckiest patients I have ever had-have ever heard of, even-who have experienced a car related injury. I suspect that the car must have slowed, yet not enough to stop entirely."

I listened intently, giving him my full, undivided attention, unsure whether to be relieved or to continue to hold my breath. I went with the ladder, blood seeping from my palms. I did not notice until the pain made me grimace. Dr. Vasquez seemed oblivious, though.

"I suspect the real cause of his hospitalization was not the car, exactly-it seems he hit his head on concrete, or perhaps the road. He busted it clean open; we had to staple it shut, and he lost a lot of blood, but besides some hearty bruises and some miscellaneous cuts here and there, that was really all the physical damage. But, sadly… there were complications, still."

At that, all of the life drained from my face. He said no brain damage, so what could possibly be the matter? And to think, for a shear moment I almost believed he could be emitted out of this wretched place tonight, and explain all the details later whilst we tried to laugh about this gut wrenching experience, then promptly try and pretend that the whole ordeal did not even occur. But, alas, life is not a wish granting factory. {A.N. Anyone know where that saying is from?}

"Wh-Wha-What complications? What happened? Please, you have to-"

Surprisingly he interrupted me, as if rushing to get to the bad news. Speaking quickly, he replied, "Of course, after any head injury whatsoever we ask questions to investigate any mental issues or trauma. Mr. Williams, I am severely sorry, and my condolences truly does go out to you, but it seems… it seems that your brother has lost his memory. I drilled him with questions as necessary, and it appears that his fall or however you wish to describe the happening has damaged a vital area of the brain. Though, he is aware of who he is, for he recollects up until-from what I can diagnose- the age of perhaps four through six. He had no idea how he got here, what had happened, any of his friends, but he did mention you… Of course that does not perplex me at all, for you were surely a part of his childhood, being his sibling. Alfred also said something about parents, but that is none of my business. Matthew, it may come back to him, but as of right now…" His voice trailed off, but I knew exactly what he was implying.

_But as of right now, he knew as much as he did when we were children._

I blinked, not believing his words, not comprehending them, not processing the meaning of them. Lost his memory? How could that be? I wanted to pull out my matted clumps of blonde hair and scream, letting my usual whisper rise to something tremendous, something too loud and thunderous that it would rupture my vocal chords.

Alfred lost his memory.

He only remembers me.

He's practically gone.

_Alfred, no…_

"If you want," said Dr. Vasquez, breaking through my saddening train of thought. "You can see him. Last time I checked up on him he was awake, asking where you were. Would you like to say hello?"

With a heavy heart, I nodded. No words would come; I could no longer force them out. The doctor seemed to understand for he did not press or push forehead, but instead gently opened the door to room 189, where my brother lay in bed.

"Wow, Matthew… you've grown."

Not even thinking of how the doctor stood right over my shoulder, I began to sob.


	3. Talking to Alfred

Who I Am? Chapter 3

They overtook my frame, those retched sobs. My dear brother, Alfred, was laying in a bed that had nothing but white sheets and white blankets, which reminded me of an angel, in a way, the way he was just so immensely lax in the cot made of pure white brilliance. My stomach churned at the sight, and it took me so aback by his tired, yet confused smile lingering across his bruised expression. There was a cotton bandage wrapped about his cranium, with tusks of blonde tresses protruding from both under and above it. I felt as if I was going to be sick. How humiliating it would be; no, more than that it would alarm Alfred. I should be calm for him. Stable for him.

I cupped a trembling hand over my mouth, trying in vain to stifle my dramatic sobbing. "I'll leave you two alone." The doctor quickly said, slipping out the door and shutting it with a gentle _click._ I barely heard him. Alfred merely continued to lie on the bed, head slightly propped with pillows that were surely more comfortable than any other you could find in a store. "You didn't grow in a bad way," he continued, and though I was happy he was speaking, proving to me he was in fact alive, I wished him to be silent, "you look good. All grown up."

His voice was hoarse, as if he desperately needed a drink of water. I distinctly heard him trying to add a chipper tone to it, though, as if making his voice seem light would cause this whole situation to be a bit easier to overcome. "The, uhm, doctor said you don't…said you don't remember much." I managed, swiping the back of my hand across my cheeks harshly, rebuking myself for breaking down this soon, right in front of my brother. "Yeah," he confirmed, leaning into the pillows for support, "and he gave me a mirror to see what I look like now, considering I don't remember how I look past age, like, six. I discovered that I definitely need glasses, that's for sure. He had to put the mirror, like, two inches from my face."

Despite myself and the great despondency shriveling my insides, I somehow felt a smile turn up the corners of my mouth. I hadn't even realized that Alfred's glasses were missing from his nose. How strange he looked without them. He most certainly looked a lot younger. "I'm chubbier than I'd like, to be honest," he continued, not meeting my watering gaze and looking up at the blank ceiling, "but I've got a pretty good face all in all, I think. For the most part, I can't complain about who I seemed to have grown up to be."

I allowed one more sob to rattle my person, and then responded in a trembling tone, "You're not chubby." I meandered over to his bedside, plopping down next to him. The bed shifted under my weight, but I was immediately overcome by the softness and comfort it provided. At least Alfred is at ease here. I looked at his face, into his twinkling eyes. Without the lenses blocking his irises, they were a startling shade of icy blue. I had always been jealous of that. Sweat glittered across his brow and at the base of his neck, and his skin was a shade lighter than last time I had seen him. There was nothing I wanted more than to just wrap my arms around him and make everything okay again. To, perhaps, go back in time before the accident and stop it from ever happening.

Alfred smiled weakly, obviously too fatigued to argue. "Thanks," was all he said.  
>We sat in silence for a few moment, neither one of us sure as to how to go on. Finally, I broke the silence. "So," I started, striving for conversation, "do you… remember England? He's the nation that took you in. France took me in. Or… the team you joined? The Allied Forces? Anything like that?" I pursed my lips so tightly it made my teeth ache. I shouldn't immediately badger him with questions; he was being surprisingly calm about the entirety of the situation, I knew I shouldn't push him. I took deep gusts of oxygen into my lungs, willing my racing heart to fall into a lax state.<p>

Responding, Alfred gingerly shook his head, careful not to hurt himself. "No, I don't remember any of that, dude. It's crazy-I remember you. Us, as kids. We went out, you know, since we're nations and all… I was in a field… The rest is, well… not there. I mean, bits and pieces I can almost make out. Something about ice cream and breaking my foot, I think. Uh, and a beach? I try not to sort much out, though. It just leaves me with a headache, and I am so okay with being a confused lunatic instead of pulling out some sort of memory and living through the rest of the day with a migraine."

I supposed I understood that. It was still so baffling that all of this was happening. I speculated pinching my arm to make sure it was all in fact real. It couldn't be, could it? I shook my head, trying to rid my mind of all disbelieving propaganda. "Apparently I got into some kind of accident." The familiar voice brought me back down to the world from my internal cloud. I looked back at him, listening. "Dr. Vaskeez said I got hit by a car? I just wanted to know what I was doing. Or if I peed myself on impact."

I snorted. Alfred was still Alfred, never missing a beat. "It's Dr. _Vasquez_, Al," I corrected, smiling nevertheless, "and I don't think you pee yourself if you get hit; I think it's only if you die. Which I'm very glad you didn't."  
>"Me too," Alfred said, allowing himself a grin. Teeth as white as ever, grin as dopey as before. If I didn't know any better, I'd say nothing was wrong. The only differences I could see in my older brother was the naïve confusion glistening in his eyes, lack of eyeglasses, and the bandage wrapped about his head. Everything else seemed to be in order, truthfully.<p>

"Do you think you'll ever, you know… remember again?" Alfred halfheartedly shrugged, obviously too tired to think completely clearly. Not to mention the doctors most likely had him drugged up on medication that would alleviate any pain but also bring about exhaustion. "Doctor said it's a fifty-fifty chance. I could remember everything by tomorrow, never remember anything ever again, or remember random crap in…random intervals of time. Guess we'll just have to… wait and… wait and see, huh?"

"Yeah," I answered, and watched as his eyes began fluttering closed. He must have had a long day; he was merely emitted yesterday. His words began slurring around his mouth and falling from his tongue almost inaudibly, voice quieting with each word. "Hey, Alfred-I'm going to go and let you get some sleep. I need to find out visiting hours and things, anyway."

He shook his head, probably not really listening much. I arose, body stiff from staying in one position for a long length of time. My excited cardiovascular muscle still has yet to quiet down, and I doubted I'd get much sleep tonight. I stretched my arms over my head, and headed toward the door to let myself out. "Wait…" I stopped, my hand frozen and outstretched towards the doorknob.  
>"Yeah, Al?"<br>"Come back tomorrow… Okay?"

I was taken aback. Eyes widened, I turned to look back at him, unsure exactly what to say. I'd come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. I'd see him every day, for as long as I possibly could. Until he could return home, where he belongs. Then, I'd still go to his house every day and check up on him. Inhaling so sharply it burnt my throat, I answered, "Definitely."

Alfred seemed to take that as a reasonable answer, for he grinned before resigning to rest against the bed, and drifted off to sleep. The IV in his arm most likely was pumping his blood with medicine designed to help his pain, but bring about sleep. I wouldn't mind some of that myself. Being as quiet as I could-which wasn't that difficult, considering I was pretty much a quiet person-I let myself out of his room and began walking down the hall. Many others were also departing, so I figured visiting hours were mainly over, anyway. I was still having a difficult time wrapping my mind around the whole ordeal. There was no way I was going to find sleep tonight. Or, maybe I would just never sleep again.

I found myself back at the front lobby reception desk. "Checking out, Sir?" The same, chipper woman asked me, smile just as coaxingly, sickening sweet as before. I was too bone-tired to be necessarily disgusted, though. Maybe I was _so_ tired that my own weariness would keep me from sleeping. The idea seemed logical. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Okay, name and patient whom you were visiting?"  
>"Matthew Williams, and Alfred Foster Jones."<br>"Great." She jotted things down on a piece of bright yellow paper. "Well, should I expect to see you tomorrow, Mr. Williams?"

Must she ask endless questions? All I wanted to do was go home, drink something that was put in the microwave for far too long, cry a bit, and curl up on my bed in complete darkness and wait until I could see Alfred again. "Yeah," I responded to her last query, "and as many days after, as long as my brother is here." The woman flicked her green eyes up to me, a permanent smile stretching her face not so attractively. "You seem like a very kind sibling to have."

"I do try, Ma'am."

After drowning my sorrows in about ten stacks of pancakes that we, in turn, drowned in maple syrup, I laid myself down on the couch and listened to the same voice recording on my cell phones machine repetitively over and over again. "_Matthew Williams, I am Dr. Vasquez. I'm calling to inform you that we're currently holding your brother, Alfred Foster Jones, in Room 189_."

I slung my limp arm over my eyes, silent tears dampening the sleeve. I had put on two jackets since getting back home, feeling an internal chill that wouldn't go away. _"All that I can state at the moment is that he is converting in and out of consciousness. I haven't the desire to worry you further."_ Was there anything I could have done to stop it? If I had at least found out sooner, I could have seen him earlier. Comforted him. Something, anything.

_"End of messages. To play back voicemails, press-"_ I turned off the machine entirely to shut the monotonous voice up. I wanted to be alone in quiet solitude, to seclude myself within the depths of my darkened living room. The only voice I wanted to hear was my own subconscious… Well, I speculated that there might just be one other voice that I wouldn't mind hearing. Plucking my cell phone from the coffee table a few feet in front of me, I dialed his number and pressed the phone against my ear.

It rang once, twice. Then, "Mattie! Guten nacht, how is my polar bear doing?"  
>I breathed out slowly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Prussia. Hi. Something happened."<br>I could practically hear him balk over the phone. "What? Are you okay?"  
>"I'm fine, I'm fine… It's Alfred… he… he…"<p>

Once again, I lost all ability to formulate a coherent sentence due to the fact that the only sound coming from my mouth was inaudible sobs.

**A.N. Do you guys hate me yet?  
>I'm sorry! I could complain about being busy and blah, blah, blah, but in actuality I just haven't had much inspiration for this story. Plus, I've been getting into other fandoms, too. I'm sorry, Hetalia, you know I still love you. Have you guys heard of <strong>_**The Devil is a Part-Timer**_**? If not, check it out. If so, expect fanfics from me! ;D **

**All of you guys really are awesome. I've got such great feedback, and I love you guys. I swear I'll try to update more, alright? I love each and every one of you-don't stop reviewing, you're all what keeps me writing this! **

**Also, I know it's a bit slower than the last two chapter (and I think shorter, too) but the next chapter I'm pretty sure I'll be bringing other characters into the mix. ALSO, VERY IMPORTANT; there is no shipping in this story. The only thing I'm shipping is Canada and Prussia, and that won't be, like, overly so. Just so Mattie has a shoulder to cry on. I guess if you guys want me to hint at UsUk, FrUk, or Ameripan I could do that. Just say what ya'll want in the comments.**

**Love you all so much, hope to see you soon!~RainbowRaven**


	4. The Plan of the Plan to Escape

I had spent almost the entire night talking with Prussia about what had happened, what was said, and the inner turmoil I was going through. But, I shouldn't be the one all shaken up. I felt horrible for, well, feeling horrible. If anyone had a right to be a broken mess, it was Alfred, and he was taking it better than I. Prussia and I talked for hours, until around five in the morning I heard the great strain in his voice, obviously him desperately trying to stay awake. Several times I had to yell, "Gil!" in order for him to snap out of his previous dozing state. Eventually I told him I was exhausted; which wasn't necessarily a lie, said my goodbyes, and hung up.

Though from five to about six-thirty, I simply lay on my couch and stared at the ground or the ceiling. I had to tell England. England would tell France. France would tell… most likely everybody. I buried my face in the couch cushion, willing it all away. I wasn't going to sleep, there was no way. Absolutely no way I could sleep while Alfred was in the hospital, surrounded by strangers with a bunch of nefarious tubes and things injected into him.

And yet, the last thought I had before I drifted into a hearty sleep was, _Alfred, please be okay…_

{~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}

I had to get outta here. It smelled like bleach, like someone had cleaned and cleaned waaaay too much. The lame ass doctors won't give me any more sleep meds, and I'm so sick and tired of being forced to watch golf or _Oprah._ One more minute of this and soon I'll be spouting, "And you get random crap, and _you_ get random crap!" I couldn't take it. Plus, I missed Matthew already. From what one of the nurses had said, visiting hours for family is from 8:00 AM to 12:00 PM. For friends it was something like 10:00 AM to 8:00 PM. At least, from what I remember. I lolled my head to the side, looking in the direction of the clock hanging from the wall.

I had no freaking idea what it said. It was all a blur of smeared, black numbers. Like someone had drawn a clock on a white board, and then used their finger to smudge it all together. If I squinted I could almost make out the clocks hands. Was the little hand on the nine, or in between the nine and the eight? I couldn't tell. Either way, from the silent scurrying about I inferred that visiting hours probably started now or at least sometime soon. Where was Matthew?

I slumped into the conformity of the bed, feeling any tension in my back or shoulders easily melt away. If only really comfortable beds could relieve headaches like that, too. Trying to tune out the feminine voice on the TV saying how _everyone got a new CD_, I gingerly tried sitting myself up. Almost instantaneously there was a tremendous pounding against my skull, as if some little, angry dude was in my head and hitting it with a sledge hammer in an attempt to escape.

I heard myself meekly groan, but barely felt the helpless sound croak from my throat. I had convinced the nurses that I could get up on my own, and it was true. It just took some time and some lumbering appendages. Besides the constant exploding fire in my cranium and not remembering almost anything, I felt alright. I hoped I could go home soon-I was curious to see what my house looked like. I didn't really expect to see anything fancy (considering I don't really feel like a dapper kind of guy), but I hoped it wasn't a shack or anything like that.

Almost yelping in pain, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, letting out a huge sigh as the task was done. My body felt as if it was being pulled down to the ground with lead constantly, and when I informed the doctor of this, all he said was, "Mr. Jones, you got hit by a car." Which I'm pretty sure was his nice way of saying, "Duh, Stupid. Suck it up." I suppose I didn't necessarily mind, though. It could have been a lot worse. I could have been dead. Or even horrible disfigured and ugly. Using the end table to steady myself, I shakily arose from the bed. I must have looked pretty pathetic, but I really need to pee, and the alternative would be one of those pretty nurse ladies putting a tube in an inappropriate place and saying, "Alright, now just go ahead and urinate in the bag."

That's what I had to do the first day I was put in here, and to be honest I can't even look at any sort of bag now without cringing or gagging. Shopping should be fun.

Walking like a drunken man, zombie, or a drunken zombie I lumbered to the bathroom, did my thing, and stumbled back out. Just that measly task took a lot of energy, and by the time I sat back down on the bed I was panting like a chain smoker. "This sucks," I wheezed, toying with a loose end of a bandage wrapped around my head. After a moment or two of catching my breath, I heard the subtle creak of the door opening adjacent to my bed. I'd love to say I turned my attention to the person at once, but it took me a good few seconds to turn my head that direction.

My heart jumped, hoping it was Mattie, or that England dude he'd mentioned yesterday. Sadly, as the form took shape I saw green scrubs and brown hair that without the aid of my glasses I couldn't tell if it was put up or merely really short. "Why, Mr. Jones," she began, and looked at something on a clipboard, "what are you doing up? Feeling any better?"

I resigned to completely laying back down over my covers. "I had to pee," I said, answering honestly, "and I guess so. I mean, my limbs are stiff and uncooperative, but I think that's just because I just kinda lay here for hours." Who knew a hospital would be so boring? "Still got a nasty headache, though."  
>"Well, yes, but then again-"<br>"Yeah, I know, I was hit by a car."

"Exactly." She came closer, and I could see her hair was messily pinned up in a bun. I could make out some features now that she was closer to me, and she looked pretty tired. Guess even being a nurse can't be easy. "Well, we already gave you some medication to alleviate the headache a few hours ago… I'll ask the doctor a bit later to see when you can take them again." Ugh, I wanted to throw a fit like a kid, flail my arms and legs and whine until she either gave me what I wanted or yelled at me to shut up.

"What about your memory? Do you recall anything new?" I sighed, wanting to be able to honestly say yes, but I remembered as much as I did yesterday. "No," I sadly droned, "I don't. Do you… think I ever will?" I expectantly looked up at her, praying for her to say, "Of course!" or "Most definitely, you will!" But instead, all she murmured was, "There's no way to know for sure, Mr. Jones. I'm sorry."

Despite the smack to the face I was feeling, I said, "You can call me Alfred." Mr. Jones seemed so formal; it made me kind of awkward. The nurse smiled, wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes. "Okay, Alfred. You get some more rest, call if you need anything."  
>"Can do."<p>

With that, she turned on her heel and exited the room. Why bother sleeping when more nurses will just come and wake me up five minutes later for more tests? Hospitals are so stupid. This is exactly why I planned to get out of this one, ASAP. Letting a yawn loose and closing my eyes, I began planning my escape. _Well,_ I speculated after a few minutes, _I'll wait until after Matthew comes in and sees me. He should be here soon; he said he'd visit today. _

**A.N. Again, please don't hate me. I KNOW THIS CHAPTER IS SHORT AND BORING. But sometimes you have to have boring and lame before you get to the good stuff. It'll get better, I promise. And, yeah, I'm kind of teetering off that whole "tragedy" category, considering I added Al's humor in this… But, I don't know, it's just so much fun to write things in America's POV. Also, thank you guys for the comments, you're all what keeps me writing! **

**Oh, and to "acrazyfangirl4" (since I can't PM you for some reason), here's the answers to your questions. To the first one, Al knows 'cause the doctor told him. I think that was mentioned in the first chapter? Who knows, though. And I guess you're right about that! ^^ But it could be a hospital built back in the day, or you could use your imagination, since Hetalia also had America Googling something, haha. But thanks for the comment, I really appreciate it! You're so very kind. X3 **

**All of you are awesomely kind, and I promise that next chapter will-hopefully-pick up speed. Thanks for sticking with the story, I hope to see you all very soon! Hasta la pasta!~RainbowRaven**


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